


Sizzling Bladders, or The Present History of Modern Middle Earth, Part [redacted]

by RustyShackleford



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All The Ships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Deception, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Eventual Romance, Friendship/Love, Human Smaug, Inspired by The Hobbit, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Modern Bilbo Baggins, Modern Era, Modern Royalty, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, The Hobbit References, Uncle Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RustyShackleford/pseuds/RustyShackleford
Summary: Bilbo Baggins is your modern day nobody, just another cog in the endless sea of faces and bodies among the chaos of everyday life. Unfortunately, even adrift in a homogeneous sea of people Bilbo is left floundering. Since moving out of his family home, his life proceeded on a steady gait to nowhere. No solid job prospects, no steady relationship, no home-ownership, a broken down car and the realization he's become the punchline of bad Social Media jokes. That is, until he finds a job advertisement seeking an individual with a head for business and a background in ancient history. For an aging Historian, this might be the proverbial silver lining Bilbo was looking for, and finally a chance to prove all his advanced degrees actually meant something. What he did not bargain for was playing the first move in a scheme seeking a hidden Secret Trust. Why would anyone need Bilbo's help for something meant for a law firm? How can a Historian help solidify ownership of a company? And even if one could, why would anyone choose Bilbo? He's won no awards or secured connections. However, what he thought was a boring position as a consult, turned into something far bigger than he could imagine.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Bofur, Bilbo Baggins/Smaug, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

Long before the female voice on the Android's GPS started berating him for not turning left for the third time, Bilbo knew he was already late. His palms itched as they gripped the cracked plastic of his old steering wheel, knuckles white as he struggled to fight down a wave of sickening panic. With more force than necessary, Bilbo jerked the wheel left, feeling before hearing the front wheels of the car jolt violently forward with a screech of protest as threadbare rubber tires sidled into the far lane. A momentary flash of color caught Bilbo's eye as a stunning Mistubishi Syder, the exterior a vibrant apple red, lurched hard to avoid hitting him, the sleek hood of the sporty Japanese car stopping just mere inches from Bilbo's bumper. 

Looking through his rearview mirror, Bilbo grimaced as he watched the Spyder's driver, whose spiked hair and acid washed jean jacket helped place him somewhere between 40 and desperation, saluted Bilbo with two fingers while blowing a raspberry.

Bilbo mouthed a "Sorry" to Midlife Crisis Man, feeling a twinge of guilt for cutting off the other driver, despite the crude gesture. He hated driving. There was no other way to sum up his feelings for the wretched mode of transportation. He held no illusion a first-time driver behind the wheel, with a brooding instructor beside them, would still surpass Bilbo with their vehicular knowledge, despite driving for over 20 years. Politicians and activists were always screaming on the telly how deadly car fumes continued poisoning the already damaged air quality. Bilbo was inclined to agree, if this meant refurbishing the city's dilapidated public transport and branching railways further out into the country. Of course, this would require more money, which in turn meant more taxes, and Bilbo was in no position to dig himself further into debt.

This month was the roughest so far, his bank account now hovering in the single digits. Bilbo just managed to scrape together the current month's rent on his tiny studio flat, and there was no question of covering next month if things did not improve with dramatic haste. If his landlord should ever decide to raise the rent, Bilbo would finally need to confront the fact his life was in worse shape than his car. In the past 15 years since moving out from his family home, Bilbo held no steady job, never bought a house, never started a family, and drove a beat up old Ford Taurus that by now probably had shards of crystallized oil running through the engine; the last oil change he recalled was over two years ago. Even his body was a failure, managing to sneak on a full stone from his terrible eating habits. All his schooling and advanced degrees couldn't hide the fact he was living alone in a box he could barely afford and driving a car one sneeze away from collapsing on the highway. The truth of the matter he was terrible living as an independent adult. 

Bilbo frowned at the sobering thought. Society may find the idea humorous of a frazzled yet charming 20-something racing about, making ends meet through crazy antics. There were certainly enough sitcoms depicting the lifestyle on the telly. Lively comedies starring bubbly and attractive people, young but still relatable to a larger audience, who danced and caroused from one insane situation to another in their daily lives. However, Bilbo was decidedly not in his 20s. He whipped past that milestone at full speed a decade ago, and the barometer just kept climbing afterward. No, Bilbo knew he was flirting dangerously close to becoming the brunt of a bad joke. 

"Stop it Bilbo, you silly boy," he admonished himself out loud to help quiet his internal reprimand. "It's no use going on feeling sorry for yourself. Chin up and keep calm, right?"

"Turn left," the voice retorted back, ruining Bilbo's personal peptalk and sounding far too much smug in his opinion. He threw his phone a glare filled with enough malice to change his cousin Lobelia's perfectly permed hair poker straight.

Bilbo mumbled a scathing observation under his breath vaguely referencing automated direction devices and the only Port-O-Let at a mid-Summer carnival.

"Turn left," came an insistent reply, oblivious to Bilbo's stress. Or simply indifferent. At this point he would not be surprised if he were to discover the people developing the GPS managed to include genuine indifference into the program.

"I'm trying to you demanding witch!" He snarled back, feeling his face begin to flush violently in frustration. Bilbo all but growled as he fought down the overwhelming urge to grab his cell phone, roll down his window and toss the cursed device out the window. With any luck his cellphone would hit Midlife Crisis Man. Instead he tried to concentrate on the immediate turn, hunching down as he peered ahead on the freeway for the sign alerting him of the upcoming exit. Fortunately, he noticed the sign just as he was nearly beneath the thing. Unfortunately, by the time he did notice, he missed the turn completely.

"Recalculating," quipped the disembodied voice and this time Bilbo was absolutely convinced he heard an underlying smugness.

"No! Don't recalculate!" Bilbo shouted back, fighting against the rise of mounting panic threatening to seize the muscles in his arms and back in full blown fear. If he were to take another exit, there was no telling what roundabout direction the blasted device would steer him. Last time he followed the thing’s wayward directions he was nearly left stranded on some back-country road when his car started to run out of petrol. Bilbo had almost sobbed in relief when he finally saw the distinctive garish green and yellow colors of a BP petrol station. Being any later than he already was not an option. He could still reach his interview in some reasonable amount of socially acceptable lateness!

"Recalculating," the voice stabbed through Bilbo's heightened panic with nagging, infuriating insistence.

Bilbo swore a curse so vicious Lobelia's poor hair would have completed her new look from turning chestnut brown to ghastly white. If Bilbo were in a better state of mind he would have taken a moment to appreciate the image. Maybe even light a pipe in the process.

As he was, Bilbo was instead caught in what felt like a life or death struggle with an automated voice who he was now convinced was programmed to convey both pity and disappointment at the same time. Oddly, he felt just like he usually did when visiting his relatives during the holidays.

"Turn righ--" the thing began again before Bilbo grabbed his cellphone and thumbed random buttons until the voice stopped, shutting the phone down in the process.

"Oh bugger off you confounded contraption!" He growled into the blessed silence. Without the voice chattering incessantly he was finally able to think clearly. "Right," he took a couple deep breaths, trying to throw a mental blanket over his panic and consider what to do next. "Right," he repeated, blowing out a long breath. "How about we find that left turn again. "

Counting mile markers, Bilbo quickly gauged the distance between the last turn he missed and the next exit he needed to take. He sped toward that one, but not before politely flipping on his left turn signal since Midlife Crisis Man was still trailing behind him. Bilbo pursed his lips in bitter resolution as the other driver rewarded Bilbo's goodwill by flipping him his own sort of signal.

Resisting to wave off his new friend with his own decidedly impolite signal himself, Bilbo instead muttered a venomous "You can bugger off too," before finally taking the left turn the GPS was so obsessively adamant amount.

The clock on Bilbo's dashboard never worked quite right since he bought the car three years ago, the digital numbers woefully faded against the green-gray background reminiscent of a very unappetizing pea slurry color. If you pressed hard enough against the clock face, the numbers would appear briefly. Sometimes they even stayed long enough to make out what time the thing said, which Bilbo tried doing at that exact moment. Finger cramping as he pressed repeatedly against the clock revealed Bilbo had approximately five minutes to reach his destination before he might as well give up and go home.

Bilbo felt this was not an option as his foot stepped down on the car's accelerator.

Four minutes later, Bilbo pulled into the parking garage of the building, frantically slapping the green button to dispense the ticket and lift the gate. A short distance away was a bare-bones guard station where an attendant relaxed while smoking a cigarette. Dark chestnut hair was styled back into a low ponytail, which brought "aging biker" immediately to Bilbo's mind. An eccentric mustache, which he absolutely stole the idea from Fu Manchu, trailed down either side of his wide mouth in two long tails from his upper lip. A navy uniform shirt hugged his small potbelly, the result of too many years of more sitting and less exercising. He watched Bilbo with mild amusement, apparently the highlight of his day so far. Heavy bags hung beneath the eyes of the attendant like wet sandbags, the distinct palette of blues and purples the telltale sign of lack of sleep. Bilbo's hand froze midway reaching for the ticket dispensed by the machine, realizing how odd the idea of the garage attendant looking so raw and worn. The job did not strike Bilbo as particularly stressful.

A thunderous beep blasted in angry echoes off the exhaust stained walls of the garage, jarring Bilbo out his amateur psychoanalysis of the attendant and almost throttling his head on the driver's side window frame. Bilbo shot a dark look at the driver currently waiting behind him, only to feel his jaw drop in disbelief as his eyes were treated to the late morning sun reflecting off the dazzling candy apple red hood of an expensive Japanese sports car. If Bilbo were a betting man, he would have found himself spending the night on a cold park bench, as never in a million years could he anticipate the misfortune of seeing the same man twice in the same day. He was back. Midlife Crisis Man was back, and blustering enough obscenities at him even a drunken sailor would tip his hat at the spiked hair and acid washed jean jacket and offer to buy him a shot of whiskey.

For a gut lurching moment all poor Bilbo felt able to do was gulp like a vacant-eyed goldfish while simultaneously still reaching out his car window for the long-dispensed ticket. Most drivers would have already collected their ticket, found a spot and put their car in park by now. All the shouting and colorful tropes from Midlife Crisis Man directed at Bilbo managed to season the attendant's full course of attention. He was now studying Bilbo with undivided, and in Bilbo's opinion marginally disconcerting, avid interest. Dark, tired eyes shined bright as he took a long drag off his cigarette, chest rising as he inhaled and slowly exhaled with obvious pleasure in Bilbo's direction. Bilbo snatched the ticket from the dispenser and accelerated under the rising gate, nearly striking the long arm in his haste to drive away from both further colorful ridicule toward his bum, and the other man's unwavering scrutiny. Bilbo's mind ricochet between which was more uncomfortable, suffering a barrage of obscenities by a man in an acid washed jean jacket, or fidgeting under the fierce stare of a man who looked like a villain stolen straight from the pages of a Stephen King novel. Not that Bilbo would ever indulge in sensational traps like gory horror novels, however if the librarian happened to accidentally drop one of King's books in Bilbo's bag while checking out, who was he to argue?

Suddenly everything dawned on Bilbo there was approximately one minute and twenty-five seconds left for him to reach the top floor of a sixty-story building. Otherwise, the insufferable past five minutes of Bilbo's life literally would amount to nothing more than a masochistic nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo finally allowed the less sensible side of him overrule his reason and sped straight into the first open spot he saw. A metal sign edged with melted rust and grime sat mounted on the grungy cement wall, proclaiming in faded red letters the spot as reserved for some important individual. Bilbo ignored the warning, instead jamming his car into park, jerking the key from the ignition, grabbing the faded leather briefcase containing most of his life's work lying next to him, jumping out of his car and nearly forgetting to slam his door shut before sprinting toward the nearest lift at full speed.

Once again, Bilbo counted himself lucky he was not a gambling man, finding himself twice in the same day frantically stabbing at a button with vain hopes the sensor’s automated obedience would hurry the thing along faster. Instead, the upward arrow he continued to press, even using the tried and true method of holding the button down with enough pressure until his finger started to go numb, prompted no response from the inverted plastic currently ruining his life. With all the poise of an unruly child, he stamped his foot on the chipped floor, ire finally overwhelming the last of, in his opinion, gracious and generous patience with technology that day.

"Why in blue blazes is this taking so long!" Bilbo shouted at the offending metal doors refusing him entry. Their scruffy exteriors were tarnished and pot marked with assorted dents along the bottom half of the doors. Bilbo suspected he was not the first unfortunate soul to suffer being late to business thanks to the mulish lift. Bilbo glared at the dents, imagining the satisfaction of adding to the numerous collection, leg muscles even tensing as he prepared to lift his right foot back.

"Them lifts are a wick 'bout reachin' down here quickly," a jovial voice announced from behind him.

Foot still raised mid-kick, Bilbo startled at the unexpected sound, staggering like a newborn deer and arms windmilling comically as he nearly swan dived into the dirty cement wall beside the lift doors. One flailing arm managed to land with a hard slapping sound against the wall, sending a hot flare stinging up his left arm and Bilbo hissed through gritted teeth. Cradling his left hand against his chest with his right, he whipped a scalding glare over his shoulder where the same attendant from before now stood behind him, cigarette still held between the large fingers of his left hand. The infuriating man threw Bilbo a saucy grin before bringing the cigarette to his mouth, pulling a long and, in Bilbo's opinion, unnecessarily deep drag. Bilbo could relate to the embers flaring at the tip of the hateful thing, his patience at a boiling point. When the man casually tossed the used cigarette, still smouldering, to the ground, Bilbo's self-control finally began to fray, feeling his face prickle with unrestrained indignation at such a callous regard to littering.

Noticing Bilbo's ire, the corners of the other man's wide mouth stretched further until his long chestnut mustache parted in a devilish grin to reveal a set of lightly yellowed and slightly crooked teeth. A twinkle peeked from within the depths of his brown eyes, seeming to laugh at Bilbo's flustered distress, obviously the punchline of his amusement. Oh, he did not need mocked right now! Not when he was already late for his interview!

"Not much ye can do," the attendant continued, jerking his head in a quick nod toward the lifts' tarnished metal doors. "Maybe take da stairs to da lobby, but yer gonna be late if ye go 'bout doin' that."

Oh this is far too much! Bilbo's sour mood worsened, feeling his indignation churning like a violent whirlpool from the pit of his stomach and rising in a hot rush of exasperation. He turned to fully face the infuriating man, silently counting backward to keep his composure from snapping completely. "Are you suggesting I fly? Because I assure if that is the case, odds are I would have as much luck as a pig!"

Something about Bilbo's retort gave the other man pause, tilting his head as if the gesture helped the pieces of his apparent confusion fall into place. He watched as the man struggled clearing his throat. "Ah," he began, throat bobbing as he attempted to swallow his obvious discomfort. "Not a twitter o' wit, lad, why ye feel a need to akin ye to a pig," he managed in a low voice, bringing a hand to his mouth and nervously toying with the scruffy end of one of his mustache tails. His other hand fidgeted with the frayed seams of his work shirt, which up close Bilbo realized he could play count the cigarette burn holes on. Clearly the man was taken aback by the comparison.

As for Bilbo, at first he found himself unable to do anything except stare in disbelief at the other man, trying to wrap his head around what he just heard. Likewise the attendant simply eyed him back, seemingly oblivious to Bilbo's confusion. "What?" He asked, leaning in closer, carefully watching the other man's face for hints of being let on as a joke. Instead, Bilbo could see a complete sincerity in his disposition, which helped ease his ire somewhat. "No, I ... it's just a figure of speech ... it's ...,' Bilbo trailed off at a loss of how to explain what he thought was a commonly used and widely known expression further.

Looking back, he would be sorely disappointed in himself for his lack of verbal eloquence. Especially after the man thumped a large and friendly hand on his shoulder, the strength of the gesture almost causing Bilbo to bite his tongue in surprise. "Nah much on talkin', are ya lad?" He said, apparently coming to his own conclusion on Bilbo's character. Then softened his words with a cheeky grin, throwing him a teasing wink. " Nothin' wrong wit dat. We all canna be wordsmiths like meself. But Ai wasn' teasin' ye 'bout the lift. She really is a mirthless whore 'bout being slow. Ye can press 'er buttons til da end o' days an' no matter if ya beg, cry or curse, she got 'er own pace 'an she ain't changin' it fer nothin'. "

If the pig comparison struck Bilbo dumb before, referring to an antiquated lift as the equivalent of a selfish whore knocked the last wind out of his sails. Bilbo's shoulders slumped in defeat. He closed his eyes, feeling his chest clench as a wave of despair washed over him. After everything today, the one thing that kept him from throwing in the towel was the hope this could finally be his chance. Except the moment in his life an opportunity presented itself, Bilbo found himself instead defeated by a broken-down lift. "Well," he started before he felt a sob threaten to bubble up painfully from his throat. He tried masking his discomfort by coughing loudly into a closed fist. "Well," he tried again. " I suppose that's it. Nothing left except to go home, I guess. " Bilbo felt a bit proud with his decorum now. He endured enough humiliation today as the situation was. If he were to break down in front of a total stranger, the last shreds of his dignity, such as they were, would be tattered more than a paper bag after being the unfortunate victim of an angry, feral cat.

"Ah now, no need fer tha' just yet, lad. Ai can take ye to da main floor inna jiff,," he jerked a thumb, crusted with grime and dried oil, toward a golf cart Bilbo surmised was old enough to have seen Thatcher through the entirety of her tenure. "Sophie 'ere is a bit floozie, knows 'er way 'round, if ye know wha' ai mean, " he said, grinning a salacious smile and elbowing Bilbo lightly in the ribs, who nodded in agreement to appear polite, though he didn't have the foggiest what the other man meant at all. "Cm'on lad, let's get ye where ye need da go. Speakin' of which, where is it ye need goin'?"

"Top floor, " Bilbo answered, voice forlorn, "but there's no use to it now. My interview was supposed to start five minutes ago."

Scratching at his chin with dirty fingers, the other man seemed to size him up, as if trying to work out whether his next decision would impact the whole course of Bilbo's life. "Interview, eh," he mused, continuing to eye Bilbo just a bit too long for his taste. "Well, I suppose today ye pulled da winnin' ticket after all, seein' as it would be me brother schedulin' them interviews. "

This coaxed Bilbo a little out of his despondency. "Your brother is Mister Ur?" he asked weakly, trying to keep his voice from sounding too sorry for himself. The man let out a boisterous laugh that eerily echoed through the dingy parking garage. Bilbo could not help feeling a bit uneasy at the sound. While he would be more than appreciative for the other man's help, his rough and tumble exterior, which Bilbo figured was the end result of a hard lived life, still unnerved him. From his corduroy trousers to his tweed jacket and rimless spectacles, Bilbo did not exactly give off the impression of ever living dangerously. Although he had boiled the same water in his electric kettle for tea twice a time or two. That ought count for something at least.

The man's laugh quickly escalated into a deep cough, choking whatever he was about to say next. Bilbo reached to pat his back, but the attendant waved him off, instead pulling out another cigarette from a tarnished holder and lighting the end with shaking hands. Inhaling deeply, the man blew out an excessive amount of smoke. "Tha's much better," he wheezed, voice garbling as he cleared his throat a few times before feeling satisfied. "There. There!" He said again, testing his voice. "Now tha' really is much better, eh lad?" He nodded to himself, beaming at Bilbo with a grin of approval. "An apologies fer laughin'. Nothin' personal, jus' yer da first Ai heard callin' Bombur 'Mister Ur.' Wait til Ai tell 'em he's like our ol' Da now!"

" I'd rather you didn't, " Bilbo remarked, nose wrinkling in distaste as though he just smelled something awful. In truth, the whole bizarre nature of the situation burrowed a seed of doubt in Bilbo's mind. By now he began to seriously wonder if perhaps this entire business was a charade and he was being catfished on a hidden camera show. That would certainly be par for course the way things have gone so far today. At this point, he half expected a camera man to pop up from behind one of the cars while a yuppie host wearing white sneakers and no socks would shove a microphone under Bilbo's nose asking if he ever suspected anything. Which he had not, until now.

The other man turned and began walking toward the ancient golfcart. "C'mon lad," he said, finishing his cigarette in one long pull and tossing, much like its mate, still smouldering on the ground. "Best be on our way!"

" What good will it do if I were to show up now? " Bilbo groused, scowling at the offensive butt lying on the filthy ground. Really, has the man never heard of a garbage can?

"Better late than never, lad! Oh toss yer hump," he admonished, noticing Bilbo's long face. "Ol' Bomb--I mean, 'Mister Ur'," he corrected himself with a chuckle, "has worked 'ere long enough ta know anyone seein' da boss will be late. He always gives 'em an extra fifteen minutes, given da nature of tha' tramp o' a lift, so yer good fer da moment," he assured Bilbo as he slid into the driver's side of the cart, the cracked artificial leather seat suspiciously matching the same amount of burn holes as his work shirt. When Bilbo did not budge, he patted the empty seat next to him, giving him what was probably his best indulgent smile. "Let's go now. Ai figure there's 'bout 8 minutes left 'fore me brother will write ye off as a loss," he warned, turning the ignition key with his other hand and coaxing the dilapidated golf cart to life.

The mechanical rattle of the cart firing up shook Bilbo out of his haze of self-pity and, feeling more trepidation than he cared to admit, moved to the passenger side to journey toward what he now considered a slow descent into Hell. If "Dante's Inferno" was the official travel guide through its nine circles, and all 24 of its divisions, Bilbo figured at least he would not get his best, and subsequently only, pair of dress shoes filthy. While maybe not covered in maggots and worms and a putrid mix of pus and blood, the parking garage floor was still garnished with the aforementioned own assortment of crushed glass, chewed gum, small pools of leaked oil and other liquids too corrupted for Bilbo to identify and, unsurprisingly, old cigarette butts. When he came to think of it, Bilbo surmised if Charon's ferry was not available, he could not imagine a more fitting mode of transportation across the parking garage than a broken-down old golf cart his host christened "Sophie."

In fact, said host kept his hand resting on the passenger seat, still coaxing Bilbo to join him. He eyed the appendage, feeling more than a little dubious with the other man's intent and annoyed the extremity had yet to return to the owner. Now Bilbo was thoroughly fed up with the man's jokes. "Were you going to let me sit down?" his voice neutral, despite wanting to bang his head on the cart. After all, the man was helping him. Or at least, Bilbo supposed he was. Vaguely he wondered if Dante had this much trouble with Virgil.

For a split second a mortified expression swept over the other man's face before quickly schooling himself into a aloof facade. Snatching his hand back, Bilbo caught a puzzling mumble of, "Eh, sorry. Got distracted," before pointedly gripping the wheel with both hands, eyes resolutely everywhere except on Bilbo.

As for Bilbo, he neither the time or patience to sort out the complex man, only wanting to get to his interview in time. If there even was still time. Bilbo's heart sank with each passing floor poor old Sophie sputtered through. There was no way would he could traverse 60 floors in less than eight minutes.

Bilbo must have been spoken his last thought aloud, because the other man huffed out an abrupt laugh, patting the wheel as if in consolation. "Ye 'ear tha' Sophie? Lad's lost faith in ye already," and Bilbo jumped in his seat when the little cart rolled over an empty glass bottle with a deafening pop as if in protest, the sharp echo ricocheting like bullets around them. One of the large hands thumped his shoulder again, "Cm'on now. Yer like a squirrel ready ta jump outta its own skin. Face da boss like tha' an' he's gonna send ye right back out them huge doors o' 'is without so much as a 'get out.'" He gave Bilbo's shoulder a gentle squeeze to soften his words.

Shame washed over Bilbo. What was the matter with him? When did he become such a complete pratt? The man was helping him with no obligation, and the only person to blame if he missed the interview was himself. Well, himself and that witch of a GPS, but mainly him.

Bilbo licked his lips while clearing his throat. "Listen," hedging into some sort of an apology for his abysmal behavior. " I can't thank you enough for your help. Really. This is incredibly kind of you and I want to at least express my appreciation, " he trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

For the first time since meeting him, a soft smile graced the other man's face, which he found far more endearing than the comically wide grins or forced smiles presented to Bilbo until now. "Dacant spud, s'kay. Ai can see it's been a day and a 'alf fer ye," he said, the light rhythm of his accent lending a smooth edge of affection.

"Try a lifetime," Bilbo glowered down where his hands clenched the handle of his old briefcase, the faux leather facade worn through to reveal the cheap black plastic beneath this handle. Yet despite this, Bilbo felt touched by the sincerity of the man. The last human being to convey even the slightest outward encouragement to him over the past several years was Mr. Gray, the family's lawyer and close friend of his mother Belladona. The elderly chap often lingered behind after his mother's dinner parties, gathering stacks of Belladonna's fine bone white china and precariously disposing them under a glistening cloud of soapy water in their old ceramic sink.

Bilbo remembered having dish washing duty those nights, the delicate porcelain needing washed by hand, as the automated dishwasher would likely shatter the beloved tableware in an instant. Several times Bilbo admonished Mr. Gray for carrying too many dishes at once, nervously watching for hairline cracks to materialize on the edge of each plate.

In nearly every instance someone helped Bilbo, he often found himself chided for being too solicitous and generally behaving as an obnoxious fuss-bucket. While the insults failed to lure him into a state of more complacency, especially when that one came to Belladonna's fine china, the needling still left sore spots on Bilbo's spirit, and no amount of churlish witticism or petulant rejoinders could salve over such deep puncture wounds. Only Mr. Gray would commend him for his zealous nature.

"Bilbo, my good boy, while others might see your punctilious propriety punishing, I for one applaud the considerate caution you cultivate circumventing consternation," the elderly gentleman would then slap an encouraging hand upon Bilbo's shoulder audible enough to sting through a tweed dress jacket, a knit sweater vest, a button down shirt, and the thick cotton undershirt beneath it. " Well done! "

Bilbo's shoulder was still haunted by the ghostly visage of Mr. Gray's friendly wallops. The last he saw of his mother's old friend was his backside stomping out their front door with Bilbo's father shouting for, according to Mr. Baggins, the cursed old harbinger of ill repute to never darken their doorstep again. Now the slap on Bilbo's shoulder from the attendant, while well-meaning, served a cold reminder that infamous day was over 10 years ago. He has not seen the only man who ever praised Bilbo for just being, well, he supposed himself, cliche as the saying went, in well over 10 years.

The thought left a bitter taste in Bilbo's mouth.

"Smell gettin' to ye?"

The innocent question interrupted the terrible memory with shocking clarity. Bilbo's head jerked back, as if he were physically able to tear away the memory, which was not only impossible, but his ensuing jerk just happened at the exact same time Sophie cruised over a pothole. Stars exploded in Bilbo's vision as the top of his head connected with the bottom of the cart's roof. His hands flew to grasp his head, only to instinctively be redirected to the dashboard in front of him as the cart stopped with a hard jolt. Bilbo was confused for a moment as a second set of hands began pawing at his head.

"Ah lad, apologies! Are ye alright?" Heartfelt distress peppered the other man's voice, and Bilbo finally had enough of being referenced like the primary school age nephew of a doting uncle.

"My name is Bilbo," he squawked around equal parts pain in his head and body. The other man paused, in Bilbo's quiet opinion, his rather over-dramatic fussing with his head injury, seemingly surprised by the revelation. Thankfully the man took this as his cue to introduce himself as well.

"Bofur," he said with a little smile, sitting back to give Bilbo some space, but still eyeing his head warily. Quickly Bilbo stuck out his hand to divert Bofur's attention from his head, and released a silent sigh of relief when the other man grasped it.

"Pleasure to meet you Bofur, circumstances aside," Bilbo resisted the temptation to rub his head and instead checked to make sure his briefcase was still in the cart, and not laying on the oily ground when they ran over the pothole. Thankfully the old case remained snug under Sophie's lower dash. After a moment when Bilbo realized no additional conversation was forthcoming, he turned his attention back to Bofur, then blinked in confusion at the strange look directed at him.

For intense and purposes, Bofur appeared to look ... conflicted? Yes, the man definitely looked conflicted, perhaps even a bit guilty, although oddly enough not in a way suggesting naughty. Despite his overall deferential nature, Bilbo was no stranger to schoolboy antics. Perhaps not on a "Horrid Henry" level, but he did have some bragging rights, few as they were. He even stole a whole package of unopened pencils off his instructor's desk once while in primary school. Now there was a pratt of a man, one who delighted in mocking his students for missed words on spelling tests or sharing personal information to the entire class, like when Fatty's parents separated. Bilbo still felt an evil sort of joy at the memory. Even years later, the flashback of watching the spindly-legged man in his black dress slacks crawling around his desk, his bony bum following the rest of his body like a dark rain cloud, still brought a cheeky grin to Bilbo's mind.

However, the look Bofur was giving him was not that of hot-faced embarrassment, and seemed instead more troubling, as though he felt there was something Bilbo ought to know. The look was ... well, Bilbo could not exactly guess what the other man was feeling, and apparently Bofur was not going to give him the opportunity, because a moment later Sophie was off again, Bilbo pressed back into his seat with no warning. Only this time, the cart was moving speedily along and with far more mettle than before. Bilbo had no idea the old girl still had it in her.

Not a minute later the cart slowed to a crawl before stopping, with what Bilbo felt included no small amount of hesitancy, in front of what he could only adequately describe as the literal Gates of Hell.

End Chapter


	2. Teaser Chapter! Happy Hanukkah!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has now entered the literal Gates of Hell, and he's not sure things are getting better, or worse!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teaser chapter as a bit of a Hanukkah gift! There is far more to be added, however with holidays really upon us now, I worried my next update might be delayed, so I wanted to give a little bit now!
> 
> Also, I am still in need of a Beta if anyone is interested! I try my darndest to edit faithfully and read aloud to see if what I've written flows correctly, however I do still miss things time to time. I already re-edited the first chapter after catching some grammar and spelling errors. Nothing major, however if you are interested in seeing, I updated yesterday!
> 
> Have a great holiday and as always, stay safe!

Before Bilbo’s very eyes stood the literal Gates of Hell, in all their ostentatious grandeur. As anyone would imagine the gates of the Underworld to manifest in their mind’s eye, they were massive, large enough to fit a minivan in with room for the family to mingle comfortably around. Lobelia would argue the family likely had two fathers or two mothers if they were heading in the “wrong” direction, instead of a proper Christian two of each, as per God’s instructions to Noah, but not everyone can reach the proverbial gold star. Sometimes you must settle for the bronze. Or even the runner up ribbon. Hell, at this point in Bilbo’s life, he would be happy with a “Good Effort” award, he thought dully, eyeing the hand forged ironwork adorning the exterior, the swirls and whorls of some talented Smith intertwining to create a network of vines. Long thorns adorned the vines in what Bilbo thought was surely a tongue-in-cheek joke on behalf of the Smith. If Jesus could have a crown of thorns, then the entrance to Hell could have thorny gates.

For a wild moment, Bilbo wondered if Heaven had pearly gates, then perhaps Satan had a crown of pearls. Would that not be a stroke of ironic humor.

Yet the most pretentious design of the gates lorded above like the scowl from a lighthouse on the black sea of sin. Or at least, that’s what Bilbo imagined whoever crafted the emblem had in mind, for above the gates, in the biggest, most intimidating words he ever saw were forged:

_"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"_

Bilbo had no need for a translating app to figure out what that meant.

The best part though, in this downward spiral of depravity, was what the literal Gates of Hell was.

A lift. More specifically, a cargo lift. The Gates of Hell was a cargo lift?

Bilbo must have spoken this aloud as well, because the amused look Bofur was shooting him could sell life insurance to an inexperienced mountain climber. “Aye,” he confirmed with a weak chuckle. “Ye might be a wee bit over dramatic, lad. I may naught be da pillar of sobriety, bu’ me mum would’ve tanned me hide if Ai were to dally wit da devil ‘imself,” he shrugged more than laughed at the dark joke. “Neh tho’, we are alive as anyone an’ yer ‘bout ta miss yer appointment.”

Now that would not do, Bilbo thought as he scrambled to climb out of the cart.

Grabbing his briefcase, he dashed around Sophie, heading to the colossal lift before skidding to a stop and turning back to Bofur. Without a second thought, he grabbed his hand with a light squeeze, completely forgetting about the oil and grime covering the thing. “Thank you, Bofur,” he wheezed gratefully, the air leaving his lungs through a mix of anxiety and being out of shape. He really needed to lose that extra stone! Then he dashed quickly back to the lift, jamming the “up” button with feverish intensity. Less than a minute later, a polite “ding” echoed through the garage and the doors opened, welcoming Bilbo on his journey into the world of torture and humiliation, which was nothing new to him. He’s worked in corporate offices before.

Stepping into the lift, he saw the number “60” and banged his index finger into the button, looking up just as the doors were closing, and almost immediately regretting the decision. Bofur’s face was a canvas of emotions, and none of them encouraging, but before Bilbo could reflect more on this, the doors shut like the curtains to a theatre, shadowing the other man’s face and leaving him to wonder what could possibly be so dire about a job interview.

Bilbo’s stomach heaved as the lift lurched, and then began to climb with sickening velocity upward, traveling far faster than the immense size of the lift let on. Being a lift typically used to haul office equipment and anything else too heavy for the main lift, Bilbo did not expect any frequent stops, something he counted in his favor. His nervous were already at their peak, and the idea of meeting yet another employee was more than he could handle, despite his gratefulness at meeting Bofur.

The man’s warm smile ghosted through Bilbo’s mind, and he found himself mortified at the unmistakable feeling of heat lightly spreading across his cheeks. My goodness, he could not even remember the last time he blushed with something other than furious ignominy! Quickly, he glanced around for a mirror, and all but jumped when he saw another man was in the lift with him! For a full moment Bilbo stared at the other man who, from the expression on his face, was equally as shocked as he was, until his brain sluggishly caught up with the realization, he was looking at his own reflection. “Oh Bilbo!” he huffed, scowling at his mirror image, who was none too happy either with whatever he saw. “Get a hold of yourself! Look at you! Your pants are wrinkled! Your vest is a mess and your shirt’s all over the place! You’re a right mess!”

Grumbling at how he now looked as if he climbed up the lift shaft himself, Bilbo reached into his pants pocket, and pulling out a handkerchief, started to wipe the beads of sweat scattered across his nose and forehead. No sooner was the evidence of his anxiety swept away before he realized his nice clean hankie had apparently fell victim at some point to the parking garage. Bilbo stared down at the sparkling white napkin in growing horror. Or at least, the cloth tissue was when he left the house. Only now, instead of a spotless starched white hankie, was now a dirty blob of grease and filth. Which he had just proceeded smearing all over his face.

This was too much! For the second time since entering the cursed building, Bilbo fought the urge to simply give up and go home. Clearly, whatever divine powers that might be did not want him to have a successful interview. He hadn’t even a chance to do the interview yet! Why the cosmic forces of the universe decided he was not cut out for the position before even having a chance to discuss the situation was a mystery only known to them. Deep down, Bilbo figured this one was probably their idea of a sick joke. At this exact moment a pleasant chime echoed through the car, and before Bilbo could react, the doors of the lift opened to reveal a lobby unlike anything he had ever seen.

Towering pillars of yellowed marble inlayed with darker marble lined the entrance, reaching toward the arched ceiling and cradling stunning gold molding with their ornate heads. Frescos adorned the ceiling with images depicting what Bilbo imagined was the era of the company from the beginning, each section segmented by hand-carved arches in black and gold and painted to reveal the numerous triumphs of the Founder. Soft yellow lighting adorned the heads of each pillar, cleverly hidden so each of the lights were like a sun rising in the distance. The entrance floor was a marvel unto itself and must be a great source of pride for the artist, as the entire floor was hand-laid with the cube design made famous by M.C. Escher. The surface was polished to a high shine, bright enough to reflect the faux rising suns from the top of the pillar heads, giving the gilded room the feeling of warmth and strength and wealth. A lot of wealth. In fact, the room was reminiscent of a medieval treasure room, with golden piles of coins and chests overflowing with gems glittering under subdued torchlight. If Bilbo had to pick a word to illustrate the room, that word would be “opulent,” although even this seemed a poor narrative.

Bilbo could not stop staring at the lobby. Cautiously, he poked his head out, feeling as though he was spying through a looking glass into another world, before an angry buzz startled him back to his senses. Apparently, the lift decided this ended their chapter of the adventure, and for that reason the doors quickly began to close before Bilbo had a chance to react. Managing to squeeze through the rapidly shutting doors, the lift assigned little room for him to escape, and he felt the hairs on his neck raise with cold realization his head was almost crushed between the lift doors. Normally, lifts were designed with sensors to expressly not close on people, however given the lift’s enthusiasm shutting the doors, Bilbo imagined a fair number of employees had their own close encounters about being potentially crushed by the lift gates. He hurled the lift his nastiest glare before the gates shut completely, their mirrored exterior meticulously polished to replicate an unblemished reflection. Bilbo fought the urge to run an oily finger across the impeccable facade in retaliation for nearly crushing his head.

Penning a mental note to always take the hallway stairs if they hired him, Bilbo rummaged in his pocket feeling for a spare handkerchief before locating the item with a sweaty palm. Quickly he managed to wipe off the worst of the grim with the dry cloth before shoving the tissue back into his pocket and turning to face the lobby again.  


Bilbo’s stomach threatened to cramp peering toward the end of the entrance where a very large man sat at a very small desk. The distance from the lift to the desk seemed inordinately long, reminding Bilbo of a scene from a Bond movie, where the hapless hero traversed across a seemingly endless ornate floor to meet with the villain. With no one else in the lobby and no other visible doors, or even a fire exit, he guessed that was where he was supposed to go. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm his nerves, Bilbo raised his chin in pure, unquestionable, fake self-assurance and headed in the direction where the other man sat.

Whatever the man was working on completely absorbed his attention, his eyes focused on the computer screen sitting cattycorner on his desk, seemingly oblivious another human being now occupied the lobby. Bilbo could not blame him. While the lobby sported no carpeting, and Bilbo could see no other furniture besides the desk, the room was unnervingly quiet, as though the moment you entered, all evidence of sound evaporated into the atmosphere around you. His footfalls did not echo toward the vaulted ceiling above, nor did they prompt the familiar clopping sound he was used to hearing on bare floors, something he was all too familiar with after walking the sterile hallways of office buildings in his hunt for employment. In this lobby though, sound felt forbidden, or even dangerous, although why any noise would be considered dangerous in an office building of all places, Bilbo could not hazard to guess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is finally about to meet the mysterious President of the company he is interviewing with. Thus far, the whole situation seemed like a bizarre comedy of errors. However, Bilbo needs a job, and the company needs a historian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapter. Originally this was supposed to be combined with chapter 2, however I felt this would be too confusing. I am currently working on a longer chapter 4. I was anxious to post however, since the holidays swamped all of my time, and I wanted to keep this story going. 
> 
> Thank You!

“All right Baggins,” he mumbled, breath low as he tried to settle his already flaring nerves. “Let’s see if we might survive this trek through Limbo.”

Chuckling to himself at the reference—which he considered entirely appropriate given the warning inscribed above the lift—Bilbo picked up the pace and only stopped once directly in front of the small desk, where he waited for the large man to notice him.

There he stood.

And stood.

And stood some more, hands politely clasped in front of him holding the faded briefcase, feeling impolite to draw attention to himself. Surely the man must have noticed him by now. Granted, despite the immense size of the lobby and the unsettling absence of sound, Bilbo would like to believe his presence must generate some level of acknowledgment. After all, he was staring at the larger man intently. Perhaps he was not staring hard enough?

Remembering back during his elementary school days when he knew the other kids were talking about him--usually plotting how best to ambush him after the final bell of the day—Bilbo’s eyes zeroed straight in on the other man. He stared, trying his best not the blink, for a good solid minute, committing the man’s face to his memory, a task Bilbo found was not very difficult. The man truly was immense. Everything about him was big and red, and put Bilbo in mind of a sentient apple. From the reddish hue of his chipmunk cheeks, to the long, scarlet beard artfully braided into a look Bilbo felt was more appropriate for a Medieval festival rather than a corporate office, to his enormous girth which all but swallowed the tiny computer chair which currently strained under his heft. His stout figure was wrapped in a navy coat, the dusky fabric cloaking his silhouette into a seamless dark mass, and Bilbo guessed the hem managed to stretch itself well past the man’s ample stomach, enough to disappear beneath the desk where the man sat. What impressed Bilbo the most were the six brass buttons standing like partners in a dance on the man’s chest, looking for all the world like bright full moons hovering over a deep ocean. In fact, the clothes put Bilbo in mind of a starched Naval Officer. However, the man’s eyes were bright and appeared kind, so Bilbo settled his attention on them, mentally willing the man to look up from whatever was on the computer screen tunneling his attention.

A minute later, Bilbo’s eyes began to burn. He sighed. This should not have come as a surprise to him. He was always rotten at staring contests. And he was no closer to getting the man’s attention than he was before.

Right! Bilbo thought to himself. There was nothing left to it! He loathed to do this, however desperate time called for desperate action, as the saying goes!

“Ahem,” Bilbo cleared his throat, or at least tried to. To his own ears, the sound reverberated to through the Earth’s atmosphere, through space and straight to the moon.

To anyone else, they might politely comment Bilbo was just loud enough that a cat walking on a goose down feather bed would have drawn more attention.

So, he tried again, putting more emphasis into the lower part of his throat.

“A-HEM!”

Bilbo winced inwardly. He sounded like when he was once sick with Bronchitis. While caring for him, Belladonna stated he reminded her of the quote by Mark Twain making it a rule to never smoke more than one cigar at a time.

However, this time the oral signal was a success, because the large man jolted backward into his chair, clearly taken by surprise. The tiny chair groaned in pathetic protest as the bulk of his weight teetered the backrest at an angle the manufacturer never intended for. Bilbo lunged forward over the desk, pens and a stapler digging painfully into this stomach as he reached out with both hands and grabbed the man by the intricate braid of his thick beard. The larger man flailed about, reminding Bilbo of a turtle turned wrong way about on its shell, before he managed to regain his balance, shifting his huge bulk into a more central location on the chair. Both men allowed a moment to collect themselves, before Bilbo willed his fingers to unlock from their death-grip on the fiery braid.

Well, that did it, Bilbo thought to himself. If being late was not already grounds to dismiss the interview, jump scaring the President’s personal secretary while simultaneously assaulting him surely helped Bilbo in ripping off his own ballsack.

“Right,” Bilbo started and then stopped, unsure where to go with the thought. He fought against the constriction threatening to stifle his voice. “Right, well, should I be leaving now?”

The man blinked at him with bewilderment, seeming unsure if Bilbo just spoke to him in English, or some unknown language only dolphins would understand. “But you’ve just arrived!” he exclaimed, looking at Bilbo with honest to God curiosity. “Bofur messaged me while you were in the lift! You’ve arrived a few minutes ahead!”

Bilbo’s eyebrows met together in a passionate kiss, his mind cramping under the pressure of trying to process a situation which grew more and more bizarre with each second. “I am?” he asked, not even bothering to hide the disbelief shadowing his voice. “Are … are you sure?”

The man’s bright eyes alighted with mounting humor, a slow smile inflating his rosy cheeks like rising creampuffs. Several jolly layers of chins wobbled with happy enthusiasm as he nodded his head. “Oh yes! In fact, you are exactly 5 minutes early! And a good thing too! In fact,” his eyes twinkled with good natured mirth, “in fact, you are the first candidate to arrive on schedule. We could use a solid member of staff like yourself.”  


“Oh well that is splendid to hear!” Bilbo responded with more enthusiasm than necessary, the tension of the moment automating his response. Wisely he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Shall I just wait here?”

“Yes yes … er no!” the man stammered, grabbing a bundle of papers off his desk with a chubby hand. He bounced in his seat, trying to dislodge his bum from between the chair arms. “No, well, yes, that is if you don’t mind, give me a moment while I see if he is ready to meet with you!”

“Oh of course,” Bilbo managed. “That would be very kind of you!” He added, remembering his manners.

The man smiled. “Not at all! And please, call me Bombur,” he said, slightly breathless as he finally freed himself from the chair and waddled toward a large door concealed in a far corner of the room.

No. Large was too pedestrian a word to define the door. Bilbo would have missed the entrance completely had Bombur not made his way toward the opulent opening. Towering and narrow, the “door” in fact stretched like pulled taffy from the floor to the ceiling, the ornate arches ghosting the top and appearing for all the world to disappear into the elaborate ceiling. Yet the true marvel of the doorway’s construction was how masterfully the entryway was disguised as a part of the wall, secreted away from prying eyes unless one knew where to look.

Bilbo quietly huffed under his breath. Of all the stuff and nonsense! For heaven’s sake, these executives were becoming more paranoid by the day! It’s a bit sad really, a life of nothing more than eating, drinking, working, and occasionally, taking a dump. As a treat.

Bombur pulled a key out from the front pocket of his jacket and inserted into a keyhole hidden amongst the whorls and spirals of what Bilbo imagined were hand-carved into the door. There was an audible click as the lock gave way and the heavy door lifted away, a bright seam lancing from floor to ceiling, revealing the secret room behind the entry.

“Do you keep him locked in against his will, or is it just something he enjoys,” Bilbo joked with a light laugh, taking a chance at further breaking the ice between them. To his relief, Bombur chuckled and shook his head.

“You’ll understand in due time,” he said, and though his voice was sunny, there was a troubled, portentous tenor beneath his response. This worried Bilbo more than if Bombur had taken offense to the stab at his boss. Right at the doors of his personal office no less.

Bombur opened the door just wide enough to squeeze his girth through, preventing Bilbo from seeing any further into the room. He resisted the urge tiptoeing toward the door and peeking inside the room. Bilbo would have much preferred to at least know what the President looked like, let alone his name. The advertisement had been blessedly vague on any important details, other than a company sought a historian for some research for a project they were working on.

A second later, Bombur stepped back out into the lobby.

Bilbo stared at the immediate change in the man’s demeanor.

The jolly, bright-eyed, apple cheeked man looked withdrawn, almost gaunt. A sheen of sweat blanketed his face like scum across a mossy log, discoloring the man’s natural rosy hue to a sickly pink. To say the shift was startling was pushing things far too lightly, and Bilbo held himself in check from asking if the other man was feeling okay.

Instead, he straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “Ah, am I too early? Perhaps I should wait a few more minutes? It would be no trouble,” he said, when the other man failed to usher him in.

Bombur looked at Bilbo with a haggard expression but shook his head with ambiguous fervor. “No, no, he is eager to meet with you,” he stepped aside and pushed the door just wide enough for Bilbo to enter. “Please, go on in.”

Bilbo looked at the door.

This was the moment.

He straightened his jacket again, brushed some invisible crumbs off his trousers, took a deep a breath. And then entered.

**Author's Note:**

> So if you're reading this, congradulations! This is my first story on Archive and already it's developing a life of its own. I had not intended the first chapter to be so long, and I apologize for it being a bit dull. I was doing my best to set a scene for this alternate world and sometimes get caught up in details.
> 
> A few notes regarding character dialects and background. This story takes place in what can only be described as modern day Middle Earth in England. As such I have tried incorporating the mundane information and common knowledge of English culture into the story. Unfortunately, as someone who does not live in England, I am very apt--extremely apt--to get things wrong and for that I apologize. Feel free to let me know and I will do what I can to correct the story. 
> 
> Also, regarding dialects. I based Bofur's dialect directly off that of his actor, James Nesbitt, who hails from Northen Ireland, a region notorious for having various slangs and distinct grammer. I did quite a bit of research trying to nail down a passable rendition of a Ballymena Northern Irish accent, however I have little doubt I seriously flubbed up several times. For the record, my degree had me in several Linguistics courses during university, so my attempt to capture a dialect is well intentioned. I do understand there are grammar rules for any dialect, so this was my own attempt to capture the Ballymena dialect. And while I feel any good culture can poke a bit at their own eccentrics, at no point was I aiming to mock or demean. So, if you are from this region and feel you could add or correct my attempt, I am actually quite open to the idea. Even where I live we have distinct phrases that pegs from an area. 
> 
> Also also, please feel free to leave comments--positive, negative, neutral--for me to read. Okay in reality, I would love constructive criticism. It will not hurt my feelings. I swear it. I swear on me mum! But yeah, I am completely open to critiques. 
> 
> ==========
> 
> Update: 12/22/2019
> 
> Fixed some spelling and grammar errors. Working on the next chapter as well!
> 
> Finally, I have no beta, although most of you figured this out already. I would love one though so if you are available, please email me hpogner.schultz@gmail.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
